


pillars of regret

by groundopenwide



Series: lads on tour [1]
Category: Bastille (Band), Music RPF
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: They’re on the A38 heading towards Birmingham when one of the rear tires blows out with a teeth-rattlingpop!
Relationships: Charlie Barnes/Ed Wetenhall
Series: lads on tour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1805506
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	pillars of regret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dansmlth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansmlth/gifts).



They’re on the A38 heading towards Birmingham when one of the rear tires blows out with a teeth-rattling  _ pop! _

“Well, shit,” Ben says, guiding the van none-too-gently toward the shoulder.

Half of the tire is nothing but shredded, steaming rubber. The three of them stand there looking at it beneath the paste-colored street light. It’s god knows what time in the middle of the night; Ed’d been half asleep in the passenger seat when he felt the car lurch. He rubs the crustiness from his eyes and says, “what now?”

“Anyone know how to change a tire?” Ben asks.

Resounding silence. Charlie puts his hands on his hips, says, “Don’t really fancy getting a tow in the middle of the night. We can just—sleep here and figure it out in the morning?”

“I hate this fucking van,” Ben gripes, but doesn’t say no.

Charlie looks toward Ed for confirmation. His face is a bit ghostly like this, already-pale skin illuminated ‘till it’s near translucent.  _ Come on tour with me,  _ he’d said.  _ It’ll be fun,  _ he’d said,  _ like the coffee shop all over again.  _

Ed rubs his eyes a second time, feels his glasses slip down his nose in the process. “Fine by me.”

They clamber into the back of the van and wrestle for space amongst the mountain of instruments and sound cables. Ed ends up wedged in the corner against an amplifier. It’s shit, but it’s also not the first time they’ve had to spend the night in the van since tour started—what Charlie  _ hadn’t  _ told them was that he’d barely had enough to book the venues, much less accommodation for every night—so he balls up his jumper, stuffs it between his head and the wall, draws his knees up toward his chest, and tries to drift back into unconsciousness.

“Sorry,” Charlie says a little bit later, voice quiet.

Ed opens his eyes. Ben’s busy spooning a guitar case over by the door, already dead to the world, which means Charlie’s looking right at him, just him, his eyes glinting in the dark. 

“Not your fault,” Ed says.

“Isn’t it? I dragged you out here with me.”

“It’s been good.”

“It’s been a disaster.”

Ed can’t argue with that. He shifts a little in his corner, moves his wadded-up jumper to his lap and fiddles with the fabric. “I knew this wasn’t gonna be some super glamorous tour. Starving artist and all that. It’s alright.”

“I just—I wanted it to be like old times, you know?”

The words are soft, wistful. A confession. A harkening back to the days when they were pulling espresso shots and burning themselves on steamed milk, back when Charlie was beat-boxing in cafes on their off-days and Ed’s failed musical attempt, Fish Tank, hadn’t yet died a fiery, untimely death. Those were good years, the ones before Charlie got a gig as a touring member of one of the biggest bands in the world and his time for non-famous friends shrunk to a blip beneath a microscope.

Ed swallows the nostalgia. Says, “I don’t particularly miss living off pot noodles,” because he knows it’ll make Charlie laugh.

He’s right. Charlie laughs, and then he goes quiet, so quiet Ed can hardly hear him breathing.

“I miss you guys,” Charlie says after a minute. “I miss you.”

Manchester. The first real show the three of them ever played together. Cut to afterwards, a dark pub full of uni students who’d no clue who they were. Charlie hadn’t stopped smiling the whole night. Ed remembers wanting to put his fingers against the lines around his eyes. He remembers Ben disappearing to use the toilet, remembers Charlie dragging him into the corner to play darts and then falling against him instead, laughing his high-pitched laugh and smelling of beer and sweat. _Ed,_ he’d said, and Ed had caught him by the shoulders, said _Charlie,_ and then Charlie had stopped laughing and steadied himself with his hands on Ed’s chest. When they’d kissed, Charlie tasted like salt from the basket of chips they’d eaten an hour earlier.

(That was Manchester. Then there’d been Leeds, both of them drunk and vibrating from the adrenaline of watching Blink 182’s set, and then High Wycombe, when Charlie had sat down in the middle of Ed’s childhood bed and said  _ I think you know me better than anyone—) _

Ed’s chest cranks tight like someone’s turned it with a wrench. 

“We should get some sleep,” he says.

A rustling noise, like Charlie’s shuffling closer. “Ed—”

Ed wants to reach for him, wants to find Charlie’s hand on the floor of the van and slot their fingers together and see if his skin feels the same as he remembers, but he doesn’t know if that’s what Charlie wants. Never has. That’s always been the problem.

“Goodnight,” he says instead.

Silence. Ed squeezes his jumper tighter between his hands and holds his breath until he hears Charlie’s faint  _ ‘night  _ in reply.

**Author's Note:**

> go stream [ed the dog](https://open.spotify.com/artist/6GKzHklwb2dpXc1Pqg067x?si=AWOY20uBSAKbfjX50hbzrQ) on spotify.


End file.
